Scars
by A Pisces Alone
Summary: Working in the ghetto has its hazards... how Timekeeper Raymond Leon handles a rough night on the job. Rated T for profanity and spilled blood. Leon/Leila
1. Chapter 1

The primer black cruiser rumbled to a halt in the parking lot of the _Time to Go _convenience store, one or two passersby eyeing the powerful vehicle with evident mistrust and loathing. Inside, timekeeper Raymond Leon gripped the shifter to put the car into park, and the blood that had pooled in his coat sleeve trickled out onto the car's console.

He elevated the arm again.

Disembarking and securing the cruiser, Leon made a rapid survey of his surroundings: six people in total - three on their way out of the store, two on their way in, one loitering. As he strode toward the store's entrance, he gave the loiterer a long stare, moving the man grudgingly along, and stepped jauntily up over the curb. This detour needed to be quick - there were just over four hours remaining in his twelve-hour night shift. And with the chaos that had just broken out on State Street, he did not have a minute to waste.

Entering the store, Leon gave a brief nod to the clerk behind the counter, wordlessly raised his bloody hand higher to signify his intent as he headed toward the restrooms. The clerk, a tired, rabbity looking drone with deep circles under his eyes, returned the nod with minimal vocalization, "Officer."

Leon clicked on the light inside the men's restroom - a small room with only one toilet and sink - and locked the door. The room, badly ventilated, reeked of shit and cigarettes like every other gas station bathroom in Zone 12, and he swore under his breath at the stench. Though there had been a time in past centuries when cigarettes had been a mainstay across classes and lifestyles - something Leon could barely comprehend - they were now consumed solely by hopeless bottom feeders who had so little faith in themselves that they expected to time out imminently. Thus, it was impossible not to associate the smell with the ghetto.

Facing the mirror, Leon first turned to the small hole in the upper sleeve of his leather coat. Straightening his arm slowly, he held his hand over the sink as a fresh puddle of warm blood oozed downward and drained out of his sleeve and into the basin. The wound in his upper arm throbbed dully - he flared his nostrils and grunted at the pain. He shook his hand in the sink, causing a crimson spatter, and turned on the water. Gingerly, Leon removed his coat, clenching his teeth at the bright arcs of pain the motion aroused on the outside of his upper arm.

That moment, his CB squawked to life. "Sir? What's the damage?" Jaeger - checking on his superior officer.

Leon reached to the small transmitter affixed to his belt and pressed the button to respond. "You'll know as soon as I do. Having a look right now." His shirtsleeve, once charcoal gray, was now a sodden burgundy and hung heavily in his fingers as he began to cautiously roll it up. "Let booking know to separate our perpetrators. I want each of them in a different holding cell. Nobody is to talk to anyone else," he added. Jaeger acknowledged this, and Leon returned his full attention to his arm.

Though it was tight, he managed to roll his shirtsleeve until it was cuffed just below his shoulder, and he rotated the arm slowly. The limb, as lean and sinewy as a racehorse's, was coated in blood… with a small, neat entrance wound staring back at him in the dirty mirror. Though his arm was smeared with redness, the wound did not appear to be actively bleeding. He continued his search, pivoting his arm and body still further, grimacing slightly, until he found the culprit - a larger, more ragged exit wound on the back of his arm, from which blood coursed in a slow but steady rivulet. _In and out. Good._

Seizing a handful of paper towels from the dispenser, Leon wiped down his arm, then watched the flow from the wounds, assessing his options. _Not quite tourniquet time. _Certainly the wounds required debridement and closure. But having them tended immediately would mean two things - that his allowance of pay would be docked for whatever time it took him in the emergency room, which might well be the remainder of his shift; and, more importantly, that he would be off the streets, unable to do his job, for that amount of time. Neither was acceptable.

He would complete his shift as planned and have the wounds tended afterwards… on his own time.

The cloudy, smeared mirror threw his reflection back at him, his strongly boned face and resolute gaze partly obscured by the haze, and he gave himself an affirming nod. The streets of Dayton had been anointed with his blood countless times over half a century; preventing his name from being etched into the marble of the Timekeeper's Memorial monument in front of the station was feat enough over the decades, and his powers of endurance had become legendary among the ranks. The crimson trail that ran down his arm now troubled him no more than would the sight of rain on his cruiser's windshield. It had happened before; it would happen again. His arm was meant to last forever - as was he.

He contacted Jaeger again. "Nothing critical. Just needs a little spit and polish. I'll be back on scene in ten." Hastily he went back out into the store and purchased a small first-aid kit - his own, typically carried in his cruiser, had been utilized and exhausted a half hour before as he had administered a fellow officer. Collecting the items with bloody hands, he retreated to the smelly bathroom to bind his wounds.

As he tended his arm, he mused on the fact that he had gained yet another scar, and the eventual collateral benefits he would reap because of it. His most recent sexual encounter flashed through his memory - a pulse-pounding, taut, sweaty, and frenzied coupling with a woman who had become so carried away that she had bitten him several times, mottling his flesh.

When it came to their opinion of timekeepers, women could often be categorized into one of two camps. The first camp of females were appreciative and even aroused by the dangerous men themselves and the perilous events the officers experienced in protecting the system. And, as head timekeeper of the district, Leon's rank and good looks granted him an exclusive brand of nearly rock star appeal to some. These were women who found his calling the most alluring of aphrodisiacs, who begged to sit in his cruiser (or engage in intercourse upon it - though he had not done so… yet), asked to stroke the lethal weight of his weapon, yearned to see the scars on his body. Hero worshippers all; Leon was grateful for their attentions, because they were far outnumbered by the women in the second camp.

These women reviled the timekeepers, hated and feared them - sometimes with valid reason, Leon was aware. They were the vixens who screeched insults at him as he patrolled their streets in his cruiser, who spit, struck out and hissed with feline viciousness when he arrested them… and who nearly always resided in Zone 12. One of whom had given him his gunshot wound tonight. A wound which, ironically, would eventually be admired as a scar - kissed, caressed… even licked by a different woman who appreciated it as a hard-earned medal.

It all had a beautiful symmetry, Leon thought.

He sucked his lower lip into his mouth and held it as he swabbed his wound with peroxide, listened to it bubble and fizz faintly in his flesh. For a moment, the pain rose to an unignorable crescendo, and he bowed his head, leaned on the sink with his good hand, and stomped his booted foot on the floor in a slow rhythm as he waited for it to subside.

He was jolted out of his discomfort by a sudden pounding at the door. "Hey man, anybody in there?"

Leon didn't move, remained propped against the filthy sink. "Occupied," he called, his voice echoing in the small space. "Find somewhere else." He didn't want the interloper waiting outside the door for his exit. Wiping down the wounds again, he hissed between his teeth at the scorching sensation, but noted with satisfaction that the bleeding was slowing. Binding the arm, he swaddled it in heavy gauze, wincing slightly at the pressure of the tape. The mechanics of this were difficult, with only his left arm to manipulate the strands of sticky tape, and he wished for assistance. Officer Fields, in particular, was a conscientious and creatively attentive nurse when the situation called for it. He smirked to himself.

There was a third camp of women, and they were Leon's favorite. They were the female timekeepers. Every inch as tough and courageous as the men, they made up less than five percent of the organization, and rare as they were, highly prized by men like himself who sought acceptance along with sexual solace. Fields would understand his self-administered bathroom first aid in ways other women never would… never could. She was bold. All business, except between the sheets, where she became something else entirely. And like Leon, was capable of switching this passionate zeal on and off at will. Always situation-appropriate. And damn, she was funny as hell. Not many people could coax genuine laughter from him - Fields was one of the few.

As he shrugged back into his coat, Leon made the decision to see her after his shift… and after visiting the emergency room. Rolling his shoulder inside his coat, he winced faintly, took one final glance at his reflection. He ran a quick hand through his combed-back dark hair and exited the restroom.

There were four hours left on his shift.

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	2. Chapter 2

It was going to rain that night.

Leila sat down on the curb, long legs splayed in the gutter, and tilted her head back. The night sky possessed the strange, illuminated look that appeared just before a rain… and both of her knees ached. But the pain in her joints wasn't work-related, as some might joke; it was simple wear-and-tear from decades of normal use. If she'd ever had more time, as folks in New Greenwich did, she could have undergone simple surgeries to correct her deteriorating joints. But hookers didn't have that kind of time… at least, not hookers in Dayton.

Business had been slow, and she was hungry. She worked a finger into the space between her heel and her stiletto pump, feeling the blister that was forming, and surveyed the street corner opposite her - the sub shop there would be closing for the night soon, and she might be able to beg some leftovers off the hairy little creep who ran the place… if there was anything left to beg for.

The whine of an approaching vehicle began to filter up the street; Leila knew it would be a timekeeper cruiser before she saw it. There were so few cars in Dayton that the cruisers had a near monopoly of the streets. She sighed and rose to her aching feet, grimacing at her burning blisters, ready to move on. It wasn't that the timekeepers cared what she did for a living - it was that they drove away her business. Things had been bad enough that night without reducing her chances of landing a trick to near zero.

The powerful cruiser, satiny and sleek, rumbled to a stop front of the sub shop, and Leila paused in her egress.

It was Ray Leon. The only timekeeper worth a damn in the entire district. And one of the few who patrolled solo.

She watched as he disembarked from the cruiser, secured it, and made a quick assessment of his surroundings - locking eyes with her briefly from across the street - before entering the sub shop.

Leila let out a sharp, affronted breath. He'd looked directly at her and hadn't said a word. She furrowed her brow in wounded insult, ground her teeth. Her pinched stomach growled demandingly, and she pressed her hand to it, kneading the popcorn-knit see-through sweater she wore. Getting up, she strutted as indignantly across the garbage-strewn street as her aches and pains allowed.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Leon kept an eye on his cruiser while he waited for his sub, throwing the occasional glance toward the shop's front window. His arm throbbed dully, and he bent it with caution, wincing, testing the movement, as he watched his dinner being assembled. Whenever he ate in Zone 12, Leon never patronized the drive-thru establishments - there was too great a risk of having his food tampered with if he was unable to witness its preparation. Aside from the revolting possibilities of having food tainted with bodily secretions of every sort, Leon also had known of deadly tampering cases. One particular incident that stood out in his memory was of a timekeeper named Lightsey, who had tucked into a burger before realizing it contained ground-up glass as seasoning. With these criminal events always in mind, Leon made a practice of standing face-to-face with his dinner's creator, where his vigilant presence would prevent any dietary shenanigans.

"Mayo?" the shop's owner mumbled, spreading a hasty and messy layer of shredded lettuce atop mounds of paper-thin ham and turkey.

Movement attracted Leon's attention, and he turned to see that outside, a girl had parked herself on the hood of his cruiser. "Yeah," he answered, "and get a move on with it."

. . . . . . . . . . . .

Leila. An ancient waif of the streets, a lost soul chained to Dayton for all time by labyrinthine mistakes made a lifetime ago. Leon watched her swinging her delicate legs against the fender of his cruiser as he shoved the sub shop's door open, and, as always upon seeing her, felt a spark of incredulity that she was still alive… and a closely guarded delight that she had managed to exist as long as she had. Prostitutes in Zone 12 often did not live beyond the age of thirty or forty; most timed out because they were unable to make a living. Others expired from disease or became victims of murder, unmourned and forgotten. Leila continually pulled off the near-impossible - surviving day to day in the ghetto by the skin of her teeth - and had been doing so since before he'd even begun keeping time. She was his oldest acquaintance.

Leila scowled as he neared her, screwing up her small, fine features. "Hello to you, too, Ray." She brushed her long, indigo shaded hair out of her eyes and glanced at the bag he carried. "Thanks for picking up dinner for us."

Leon gestured briskly, snapping his fingers. "Up… come on. Off the car, Leila."

She rolled her eyes and complied, folding her arms over her small chest and throwing her hip cockily to one side. "You looked right at me when you got out of the car a few minutes ago. Couldn't say hi though, huh?"

Leon leaned against the door of his cruiser and dug into the bag, began unwrapping his sub. Not until he had taken a bite, chewed and swallowed, did he turn his attention to her again, sweeping her with his eyes. "Your hair's blue," he commented, holding back a smirk. "Thought you were going incognito for some reason, so, no, I wasn't about to yell out your name."

"Oh, so you ignoring me was in my best interest," Leila smiled cynically, nodding.

"Now you got it," Leon affirmed, his own smile spreading.

"That means… if I want your attention, I have to go blonde again..?" she hinted, sidling closer.

"Whatever motivates you, Leila." Leon chuckled, taking another bite of his sandwich. Leila's flirting was reflexive, something she had no ability to turn off after a lifetime of surviving by it, but he knew she reserved special interest in him; something came alive in her eyes when they spoke that was absent when she was with other men.

Shifting restlessly, Leila gnawed her lip and looked up and down the sidewalk. The street had nearly cleared due to the timekeeper's presence. She was wasting her time bantering with Ray; her seconds were ticking off in perfect time to her pulse, and she would have to move on soon. A few raindrops began to patter down around them, darkly dotting the pavement and the satin hood of the cruiser. Her empty stomach burned, forcing her natural directness to assert itself. "Ray, can I have some of that?" She looked at his sub.

Leon paused in his chewing. Though not normally one for feeding strays, he had helped Leila on a few occasions in the past. For a timekeeper, there were few friendly faces in the ghetto; having an ally of any sort was an invaluable asset in a place where every investigation was met with stony silence at best.

But more than that, Leon had always held a long-standing admiration for Leila's ability to survive. She was his counterpart in the Zone - the flip side of his coin - making her way by sheer toughness and shrewd ability, against all odds. Mere luck was insufficient to enable such extensive survival in her hazardous line of work… just as luck alone could never justify Leon's long-standing presence on patrol in Dayton. Such persistence went much deeper. To Leon, Leila was an oracle of what was possible. He liked to think she thought the same of him.

Tearing off half of his sub, Leon handed it to her in the wrapper, watched her begin to wolf it greedily. She nodded to him in gratitude, then her eyes widened slightly as they caught his wrist.

"Ray… you're bleeding."

Leon lifted his right arm and glanced beneath his sleeve at the dried blood there. "Not anymore," he informed her.

"What happened?"

Finishing his sub, Leon balled up the bag in his fist, cleared his throat. "I got shot tonight."

Leila's eyes enlarged further. She circled him, moving to his right, examining his sleeve. "Oh, you sure did," she confirmed, spotting the dual holes in his leather coat. "How bad?"

Leon carelessly tossed the balled up bag into the air, caught it in his palm again. "Not badly enough to ruin my appetite," he grinned, though the showy motion had set off a fresh round of throbbing in the torn muscle of his arm.

Leila studied his face, looking for signs of hidden distress. Though his body language was relaxed as he leaned cavalierly against the door of his cruiser, she did not miss the faint furrow of his brow just between his eyes. Strongly tempted to prod him with questions about whether he'd had his wound tended properly, she locked eyes with him for a moment.

Seeing Raymond Leon was an unexpected treat whenever it happened; the opportunity didn't present itself nearly enough for Leila. The energy that radiated so powerfully from him wasn't something that emanated from his unsettlingly handsome face, now thrown into blue half-shadows by the sub shop's flickering neon lights… nor did it come from the resonant command of his warm, husky voice. It was something inner, something intangible… and she'd never encountered it in any other person she'd known. Sheer voltage. She fed off his presence, savoring every second of it while it lasted, knowing it would sustain her for days to come, guiltlessly accepting the high that he afforded her with his nearness. Searching his eyes, Leila felt her way toward his psyche, concerned for his safety. The thought of losing Ray, of never seeing him again, was deeply troubling.

Under her scrutiny, the intensity in Leon's return gaze ramped up, daring her to challenge his arrogant display of fortitude. She looked away quickly, knowing she'd nearly crossed a dangerous boundary with him. Ray was wounded, he was in pain, but there was no possibility of his showing it - not here, on these streets.

"Lose the blue hair, Leila," Leon advised, pushing himself off the cruiser and standing squarely. He'd been grateful to have the vehicle to prop himself against as he'd shared his dinner with Leila - the blood loss he had suffered that night had made him feel a step sluggish - but he was ready to get back behind the wheel and return to his patrol. All the same, couldn't deny the enjoyment he'd gotten from the encounter with her. "And get a real job," he teased, moving around the front of the cruiser.

"Had one once," Leila countered saucily. "Didn't know what to do with all that time."

Leon smirked as he opened the door and eased back into the driver's seat. He started the cruiser, had settled his hand on the shifter to drop it into drive when Leila knocked at the passenger window. Lowering the window, he watched with mild curiosity as she leaned in. For a moment she said nothing, her eyes roaming the interior of the car, and Leon prepared mentally to deny her against-policy request for a ride, though part of him would have welcomed her further company.

Leila's eyes - magnificent eyes, blue green and mysterious as the sea - spied the spatters of blood on the car's console, the dark red smears on the shifter. Leon froze, his hand tightening on the shifter, feeling oddly as if Leila had uncovered evidence of a physical defect in him. Bracing himself for more questions about his injury, or perhaps a well-meaning prod to seek medical care, he tensed his jaw, turned in his seat to face her better.

But Leila ignored the gory mess in the car, and instead adopted a dreamy pose in the window, elbow propped on the door frame, her small, heart-shaped face supported in her palm. She drummed her fingers against her cheek and Leon experienced a twinge of regret - not his first - that she was tainted by her lifestyle. Because she was beautiful.

"What, Leila?" he encouraged. Clearly something was on her mind.

Finally, she spoke. "Ray… did you ever stop to think how funny it is," she met his eyes, chin still propped in her hand, "that you worked so hard to get out of Dayton… but you still spend every day of your life here?"

Leon struggled to keep his expression neutral, but his hand tightened on the cruiser's shifter. Leila had, with uncanny accuracy, hit upon an ironic truth that had stolen sleep from him intermittently throughout his entire life. Becoming a timekeeper had granted him power. A certain level of prestige and privilege. Respect. And yet… he sat in the idling cruiser on a filthy ghetto street this very moment, shot through the arm, unable to even have the wound tended properly because he could not afford to lose the time. In one verbal stroke, Leila had upended his pride, reminding him that he was every bit as trapped in Zone 12 as she was.

For a startling moment, he hated her. Hated her with a viciousness that numbed the pain in his arm and caused a snarl to ripple his full lips. "Do I ever think it's funny? Was that the question?" he growled.

Leila didn't move. That she did not back down in the face of his anger somehow mollified him, and he looked away, swallowing the remainder of his bitterness. He knew that there had been no malice in her question - it was her attempt to align herself with him, and he could take that as a compliment of sorts. The pride Leon took in his position was deserved. But in order to do his job as well as he was known for, he was required to be a hard line realist, and he recognized a truth when it was staring him in the face. Just as Leila was now. That truth was that being a timekeeper had done little to nothing to remove him from the ghetto - he was as firmly entrenched here as he'd been the day he was born.

All keeping time did was keep him alive.

He stared down the street ahead of him, awash in a familiar, horrible sense of fatal futility that had always haunted him, though it usually remained hidden. Quickly, he marshaled his coping mechanisms, which kicked in as reliably as his cruiser's stalwart engine. Leon lifted his chin, drew in a restorative breath, and nodded. "Yeah. I'm here every day. Couldn't stay away from you, Leila." A smile worked its way across his face, reaching his eyes, and he turned to Leila again. Rain had begun to fall more insistently, wetting the inky blue hair that streamed across her shoulders.

"Good," Leila said, lighting up the interior of his car with a smile that was wry and somehow bittersweet. Kissing the palm of her hand, she tilted it toward him, blew across it. "'Night, Ray."

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